


Working Sunday

by ahimsabitches



Category: Hellbenders
Genre: F/M, Fingering, Fuck Marry Kill, Lots of sinning, Multi, Shotgunning, catholic imagery holy shit, handjobs, lots of pot, sinning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 07:03:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7834870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahimsabitches/pseuds/ahimsabitches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is my half of a trade with Selkieingenue (same on Tumblr) for our mutual love of the film Hellbenders (2012) and especially Clancy Brown as Angus. She drew a gorgeous picture of her OC Willow and my OC Aoife with Angus, and I wrote some words to go along with it. Because I cannot for the life of me figure out how to place images inline on this website, I'm just going to put a link to it in the fic itself. Please click it and if you like it, check Selkie's art out!! She's an amazing artist and a wonderful person!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Working Sunday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [selkieingenue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/selkieingenue/gifts).



[Click to see the pic Selkie drew!!](http://selkieingenue.tumblr.com/image/149300820102)

 

“Okay, Aoife. Fuck marry kill: Mussolini, Hirohito, Hitler," Macon asked.

There was a beat, then cackles and groans filled the room. Bright as the sunlight that struggled in through the dingy curtains was Aoife’s laughter. She sipped her drink, eyes narrowed in thought. Angus couldn’t tell what was in it from where he was clear across the room; it could have been whiskey or apple juice. Or really dehydrated piss.

He slouched on the grubby couch, once probably tan or cream or some shit, but was now the patchy no-color of a long life of hard use. Willow had curled herself into the curve of his side and he idly reached down the front of her shirt—his, really-- and squeezed one tit. She squeaked and shifted, pressed herself closer. He glanced down at the top of her head. Just beyond the curtain of her honeyblonde hair, her button nose was turning pink. Willow was the only person he’d ever met who blushed so hard her _nose_ got it too.

It was motherfucking _adorable_.

Not that he’d ever tell _anyone_ —especially her.

“Fuck Hirohito, kill Mussolini, marry Hitler,” Aoife proclaimed grandly, accepting a glass pipe and lighter from Elizabeth.

The room erupted in caws and boos.

“What the fuck; Mussolini’s hot!” Macon said.

“Hirohito has a charm about him, I have to admit,” Stephen said.

“He reminds me of a dictatorial landgrabbing Japanese Harry Potter,” Elizabeth said.

“Wouldn’t Hitler kill you? You’re not blond or blue-eyed,” Eric said.

Angus squeezed Willow’s other tit and a smile stumbled across his bearded face at the little peep she made. She was horny and so was he, but he was also two more things: bored and lazy. Aoife’s rolling accent drew his eyes to her and an idea sparked the muzzy hungover grayness in his brain to life.

“Hitler wouldn’t kill me. Even if he wanted to, I’d just blow ‘im one good time an’ he’d fall at me feet.”

“Ew.” Elizabeth tossed a Cheeto at Aoife; it bounced off her temple.

As days had become weeks had become months, Angus had come to understand the godforsaken fuckup of a creature that was Aoife. Every person was predictable in some ways and completely unpredictable in others; once you figured out which was which, you could expect the one and be prepared for the other.

Aoife was predictable in two ways: she would gleefully tell you to go sit on a railroad spike and spin when you told her to do anything, and she would follow her cunt to wherever it led, especially if it was to Willow.

The smile stayed on Angus’ face longer this time. He leaned down and rumbled into her hair, “Take off your shirt and your bra.”

His wife, a near-perfect counterpoint to Aoife, unquestioningly did as she was bid, blushing furiously, barely able to hold back giggles. He kept his eyes on Aoife, his fingers between Willow's nipples and mouth, and waited.

“Better to be at the devil’s right hand than in ‘is path, if the devil's human,” Aoife said, gracefully avoiding Eric's pitiful attempt to touch her shoulder. Of course, he was the first to see Willow shirtless. Angus watched Eric’s eyes slide like slugs down Willow’s body, then back up to Angus, blinking as if he’d appeared in a magic sprinkle of fairy dust. Angus glared from under the thunderous shelf of his eyebrows: _not for you. Fuck off._

And like the whipped dog he was, he looked away.

Aoife knocked back half of what was left in her glass, grimaced. Whiskey, then. Good. He twisted a hard little nipple, earned a little jolt and a squirm against his side. His hardening dick pressed against the front of his well-worn sleeping pants. He’d been in them for a couple days now. Hopefully, a good excuse to get out of them would wander over soon.

“All right, Liz. Fuck, marry, kill: Hannibal Lecter, Francis Dolarhyde, Buffalo Bill," Aoife said, bringing the pipe to her lips and flicking the lighter.

"Who the fuck is Francis Dolarhyde?" Elizabeth asked, eyebrow cocked.

A cloud of thick, pearly smoke cannonballed out of Aoife's mouth. She coughed in great hacking whoops, swiped a hand across her mouth and rounded on Elizabeth, eyes bugging and red-rimmed. "What the _feck_ do ye mean, 'who the feck's Francis feckin' _Dolarhyde_?' Even that dryshite over there knows who Franc--" Aoife tossed a glance to her right, where the couch upon which Angus and Willow sat completed the U of couches and chairs in the dingy living room, and blinked, the last word cut in half neat as the drop of a butcher's cleaver. She coughed once more, shook her head as if to clear it, and refocused on Elizabeth, but the righteous indignation in her voice was pale and weak.

Bingo.

Angus allowed the grin, toothed and crooked, to complete his face. Aoife truly was an ass, and one on which the carrot worked infinitely better than the stick. He leaned down to Willow, raked her hair back with a clawed hand, held it in a tight fist, and drew his teeth along the edge of her ear. The hand not in her hair moved up to her neck, where it forced her chin up to meet his rough kiss. She played her part like a motherfucking champ: her back reflexively arched with her sharp intake of breath, pushing her naked tits outward. Let Aoife get an eyeful of that.

"Oh sure, Angus gets to fuck around with his wife, but when I fuck around with mine, it's suddenly a crime in the eyes of God." Larry scoffed.

Angus ignored him and the rest of them. They'd stay or they'd fuck off; it was all no nevermind to him. The important thing was that he'd snared Aoife, whom he watched through a tiny part in the curtain of his greywhite hair. She participated in the conversation less and less; cast furtive glances their way more and more. Her tongue darted out over her lips lizard-quick.

Willow's skin-- down her neck, over her tit dimpled with gooseflesh, across the gently undulating plain of her ribs and belly, to the edge of the thatch of hair between her legs-- was soft and warm and pebbled with scar tissue but who the fuck in this line of work-- or who knew anybody in it-- wasn't scarred all to hell and back? His cock was full hard now, and Willow's hand found it accidentally on purpose in her half-meaningless scrabblings against him. She worked the drawstring of his pants loose and the fly open with light, mothy fingers. He grunted when she took hold of his dick and kissed her again, hard. She mewled into his mouth.

His plan really was very good, because it killed several birds with one pleasurable stone: he'd get to fuck around with his wife, which was fun but not really a sin; he'd get Aoife to fuck around with him or her or, better, both of them, which was fun and a sin for all of them; and he could accomplish all this with the absolute minimum of effort with two girls, energetic and eager in their own ways, willing to do most of the work.

And then there was weight on the couch. Aoife, mouth eagerly open and eyes twin green gimlets, was pointed straight at Willow. Angus got a fleeting glance at her (naked) cleavage through the loose, hanging collar of her shirt as she leaned over Willow. Her tits were smaller than Willow's but they were no less pleasing to look at.

"Here, Wills, lemme save ye from Angus's corpse-reekin' gob," she said, and drew Willow's lips to hers with a hand on the back of her head. They both moaned. The sound punched his belly. Aoife met Angus' eyes, and he saw hunger and mischief in them, even through the film of drunkenness and the red haze of pot. Willow wiggled, giggled, stroked Angus' cock.

"Fuck you, bitch, you're the one that tastes like six-week-old roadkill pickled in hobo piss," he huffed and snatched a handful of Aoife's strawberry hair.

"Oh so y'have tasted yer own cum then?" she said, and tipped Angus a salacious wink. He jerked her forward and ground his mouth against hers until the sheared-penny taste of blood joined the whiskey and potstink already in her mouth. Aoife growled and kissed him like a wolf bolting its kill. Willow, pinned between them, wriggled against Aoife, letting go of his cock to guide Aoife's hand down to the button of her jeans. Aoife tore her face away from Angus and, panting lightly, transferred the pipe in her hand to her mouth so she could slough off Willow's jeans.

Angus took a deep breath, ignoring the tightening in his chest for now. If it got worse he'd swallow another of those stupid heart pills, but that required moving and he really didn't feel like letting go halfway through winding his girls up like clocksprings. Especially Aoife, who just fucking _reeked_ of the need to fuck and be fucked. That happened less and less lately. When she wasn't drooling on her shoes after a bad exorcism or so full of hairtrigger rage even Willow had a hard time with her, she didn't come to him wanting to be fucked. She came to him wanting to be _filled_ \-- filled with so much pain and humiliation that whatever she didn't want to think about or confront was forced out of her.

Not that he minded those times, not terribly; it worked out for both of them, this arrangement, in ways above and beyond simple sin. Seeing--and hearing-- Aoife stripped to the desperately, blackly fetal thing under all the layers of fakeass bluster always made his dick raging hard and fed the gremlin of pure, clinical cruelty that he found himself unable to completely indulge with Willow.

But Angus was a simple man, and sometimes he just wanted a simple fuck.

Well, maybe a double fuck.

Willow called Aoife's name and arched her back against Angus' chest. Aoife had ducked between Willow's legs, the fingers of one hand pressing dimples into the pale flesh of her thigh and the other hand, still gripping the pipe, hooked around the other leg. The rosary Willow had given her dangled from Aoife's bony wrist and lay prettily across Willow's leg like tears of green, gold, white, black. Hope, glory in God, life... death.

A gust of irritation blew through Angus. He bucked his hips, rubbing his neglected dick against Willow's hip. "Hey, I wasn't done with you, cocksuckin' whore," he growled. Aoife laughed into Willow's pussy, making her gasp and jerk her own hips. Keeping her impishly glittering eyes locked with Angus's, she reared back, struck a light to the pipe, inhaled, leaned back down and blew the luscious silver cloud into Willow's cunt. A high teakettle sound escaped her.

"Okay, Aoife, that's your two. Time to pass," Stephen said from about a hundred miles away.

"My piece, my rules," Aoife said, gazing down at Willow's body on heaving, writhing display with something like love on her face. "One more." she glanced up at Angus. "Perhaps two."

She dropped back to Willow and Angus made an unsteady grab for her. She easily avoided him. "C'mere, bitch," Angus meant the words to grind and threaten, but they exited his mouth much more like a petulant teenager's impotent complaint. He tweaked Willow's nipple angrily.

Aoife laughed again, so goddamned _smug_ like she fucking _ran_ this fucked-up circus, so jarringly different from how she'd come to him begging him to hurt her, to carve idols into her flesh, to absolve her of whatever hell was inside her with the grim weight of his boot. To make her flesh match the puling little creature that curled at the black bottom of her soul.

She laughed like she ran the show, laughed like he _knew_ , laughed like she _knew_ he knew, and the haughty half-cocked grin from which peeked her yellowing, snaggled teeth lit a coal of rage and lust in his heart.

"Patience is a virtue, Angus," Aoife purred, dragging her tongue up from Willow's clit to her lips, lingering there for a moment, and then latching onto his stubbled neck with her mouth and his rock-hard dick with a hand. He groaned, unable to help himself, and thrust upward through Aoife's hand. He gripped the back of her neck and held her there and felt her bite, reached into her shirt with his other hand and twisted her nipple viciously. She jerked, yelped, laughed. Said something, but he lost the words in the slicksloppy path her tongue took up his neck, over his bearded jaw and onto his mouth again. Her hand moved down to give his balls a squeeze that was only a breath shy of pain. He groaned, but it came out a breathless wheeze.

She drew back, placed the pipe in her mouth inhaling end first, winked at Angus as she licked lewdly around it, and slid her other hand to Willow's clit. Aoife worked both of them a while, drawing birdlike peeps and chirps from Willow, whose soft little jolts and writhings against him nudged Angus closer and closer to the edge. His heart pounded like a triphammer, but the pinched tightness in his chest had fled. They weren't fucking joking when they said sex was the best medicine. He felt the waiting orgasm spiral down into a tight bright ball in his belly.

Aoife replaced her hand on Willow with her mouth, and a scant minute later, Willow suddenly went rigid, arching her whole body and throwing her head back into the hollow beneath Angus' chin. She screamed, a wheezy, thready sound, and Angus, chasing his own orgasm, latched onto her: mouth on hers, muffling her scream, one hand clawing a handful of her tit and the other hand greedily wiggling into her hot slick pussy.

"Ah, yer s'damn beautiful when y'come, Wills," Aoife said, her voice thick with love and lust. She pulled away from them, and Angus almost lunged for her.

"Christ," he said, the word choking him. He moaned and let his head fall back onto the couch. His cock twitched and he almost sat Willow down on it, but he remembered with a jolt that he didn't have any condoms in his pocket or within reach, and he'd be good and goddamned if any of them were going to get up and move now.

The warm lovelight was back in Aoife's eyes, sweat beaded on her forehead and Willow's juices slicked across her mouth and chin, admiring Willow as she slowly calmed and relaxed. Willow wasn't normally this _expressive_ with him. A blade of jealousy swiped across Angus' brain, quick as the slip of a fish beneath the water. He could make Willow squirm, but Aoife could turn her _inside out._

Willow trembled and panted, a fawn in his arms, and he pulled her onto his lap. "Well I'm glad _one_ of us got what they wanted," he said, glaring pointedly at Aoife, his cock aching.

"What makes y'think I'm finished?" Aoife asked, hiking an eyebrow in earnest surprise.

A smile began hesitantly on Angus' face. Once it found its mate in Aoife's positively wicked grin, it broadened. She lit the pipe again and sucked in a long hit.

"Mmmmm, tastes like you, Wills," Aoife said, her voice strained by the breath of smoke she held. She poked her tongue out and licked the mouth of the pipe. Tiny wisps of smoke escaped from between her tongue and lips, turning her into a demon.

The idea sparked between Angus and Aoife like an invisible meeting of electrical currents. Angus took hold of Willow's jaw and rumbled in her ear, "Open." Aoife grabbed Angus' cock and began to pump it. He grunted and thrust as the orgasm, pitched back to the base of his spine, came soaring close again. Willow opened her mouth, whimpering. Nose to nose, Aoife opened hers.

Angus watched the smoke curl in thick, lazy tentacle shapes out of Aoife's mouth. Aoife's eyes, on Willow and then on him, shone with a mix of love and greed that Angus knew very well. Then Aoife pursed her lips and blew the silverwhite curls into Willow's mouth, closing it with a kiss. She peeped and jerked and wiggled under Angus' possessive, heavy hands as Aoife kissed her. "Good girl," Angus panted, not sure which one he was talking to. "Good girl."

Aoife broke the smoky kiss, sighing happily. Willow coughed smoke. Aoife slid her hand to Angus' balls again, worked them gently. He groaned and rocked his hips. "Wills," she murmured, her lips butterflying up Angus' neck again, "gimme a hand? Or a mouth?"

"Of course," Willow said and slid like an eel down between Angus' legs. Aoife eclipsed his view of Willow's mouth closing over his cock, but he didn't need his eyes, didn't fucking need them at _all_ , because Willow's mouth was hot and soft and wet and _heaven_ , and Angus pawed at the button of Aoife's jeans but Willow's sweet mouth on his bitterly hard dick stole his coordination and all he could do was moan and feel Aoife's hand tangled in his hair and Willow's hand cupping his full, heavy balls and Aoife's lips brushing his and then, strangely, instead of Aoife's tongue there was something small and hard and round in his mouth.

A pill. _What the f--?_

Then the orgasm gutchecked him. He nearly folded in half as everything in him was sucked down and out like an ebbing tide. Pain, filling the vacuum of breath, detonated in his chest and he wheezed a cough, his body a roiling, boiling lake of liquid pleasure-pain, hot as lava.

"Oh God, oh cocksuckin' _Christ_..." his voice ground out of his mouth like gravel. He clutched his shirt and pulled it away from him, as if it would release the vise on his lungs. His hips juddered. Willow's mouth on his spurting cock almost distracted him from the exquisite pain of his heart tapdancing out of his chest.

"Chew th'damn aspirin, eejit," Aoife breathed into his ear. Acting on autopilot, he did. Familiar bitterness flooded his mouth and he swallowed acid.

"Angus? Are you all right?" Willow. From the other end of a very long hallway in his mind. Worried. Like she always fucking was.

"He's fine now," Aoife said. The hallway began to shorten. The claws in his lungs loosened and the runaway railroad chug of his heart calmed. He sagged back against the couch and opened his eyes, feeling the dregs of both pleasure and pain leak out of him, leaving him with nothing but blank confusion.

Just how the fuck had Aoife known that his heart would take a shit? He blinked at her, finding focusing a Herculean effort. "How the fuck did you know...?"

Willow, kneeling between his legs, and Aoife kneeling on the couch beside him, exchanged a glance.

"I was worried that...well, since you had this trouble last time, I...." Willow tucked her chin.

"She gave me th'pill while she was blowin' ya," Aoife said, her smile small and unreadable.

"I...carry them now, just... to be safe," Willow said quietly.

Angus gazed blearily from Willow to Aoife and back, brow furrowed and brain sloggy, unsure whether he should feel offense or gratitude. Aoife placed two warm fingers on the artery pulsing below his jaw. Her eyes unfocused briefly, as if she was listening to or for something. Her mouth quirked strangely. She patted his chest and rose.

"Wait, what about you?" Willow asked.

Aoife leaned down to Willow and whispered something in her ear. Willow shook her head, whispered something back. Aoife nodded, her expression firm and earnest. To Angus, she said, "I fully expect a very _grateful_ husband an' wife t'have their way with me sometime tomorrow. Or tonight, if ye think you'n yer decrepit self can keep up with me," Aoife said, her grin playful and her eyes solemn. Willow smiled fondly. Devoid of feeling or reaction because any such would be much too thorny to deal with, Angus watched Aoife flump back onto the other couch and offer the pipe and lighter to Eric, who snatched it from her and huffed a crack addict's sniff of the mouth-end.

Willow pulled her--his, really, but her--shirt back over her head and snugged herself against Angus's side, slipping a hand up under his sweatstained t-shirt. It stopped in the shallow greyhaired dip in the middle of his chest. "Your heart's still unsteady. Rest for a little while, then I'll make us some dinner," Willow cooed.

Every person was predictable in some ways, and completely unpredictable in others. But he was neither prepared for nor expecting what Aoife-- or both of them-- had done with him. _For_ him.

"I still don't know who Francis Dolarhyde is, Aoife," Elizabeth said flatly.

"The Red Dragon," Willow muttered to herself, too timid to offer it to the room. "From Hannibal."

Aoife intoned the words with dramatic voice and hands. Willow, gently stroking Angus's chest, murmured them right along with her: "' _I am the Dragon, and you call me insane. You are privy to a great Becoming, but you recognize nothing. To me, you are a slug in the sun. You are an ant in the afterbirth. It is in your nature to do one thing correctly: before me you rightly tremble. But fear is not what you owe me. You owe me **awe**._ '"


End file.
